Well-pleas'd in thee he foars with new delight,

And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight.

Bleft man! whose spotless life and charming lays
Employ'd the tuneful prelate in thy praise;

Bleft man! who now shall be for ever known,
In Sprat's fuccefsful labours and thy own.

But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks,
Unfetter'd in majestic numbers walks :

No vulgar hero can his Muse engage;

Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage.
See! fee! he upwards fprings, and towering high
Spurns the dull province of mortality,
Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms,
And fets th' Almighty thunderer in arms..
What e'er his pen describes I more than fee,
Whilft every verse, array'd in majesty,
Bold and fublime, my whole attention draws,
And feems above the critics nicer laws.
How are you ftruck with terror and delight,
When angel with arch-angel copes in fight!
When great
Meffiah's out-fpread banner shines,
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!

What found of brazen wheels, what thunder, scate,
And fun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my spirits and my blood retire,
To fee the feraphs funk in clouds of fire;
But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise
What tongue, what words of rapture can exprefs
A vifion fo profufe of pleafantnefs!

Oli

Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his pen,
To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men;
His other works might have deferv'd applause!
But now the language can't support the cause;
While the clean current, though ferene and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the fight.

But now, my Muse, a fofter strain rehearse,
Turn every line with art, and finooth thy verfe;
The courtly Waller next commands thy lays :
Muse, tune thy verse, with art, to Waller's praise.
While tender airs and lovely dames infpire
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate defire :
So fong fhall Waller's ftrains our passion move,
And Saccharissa's beauty kindle love.
Thy verfe, harmonious bard, and flattering fong,
Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward ftrong.
Thy verfe can fhow ev'n Cromwell's innocence,
And compliment the storm that bore him hence.
Oh had thy Mufe not come an age too foon,
But feen great Nassau on the British throne!
How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page,
And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage!
What fcenes of death and horror had we view'd,
And how had Boyne's wide current reek'd in blood!
Or if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse,

In smoother numbers and a fofter verfe;
Thy pen had well describ'd her graceful air,
And Gloriana would have feem'd more fair.
Nor muft Roscommon pafs neglected by,
That makes ev'n rules a noble poetry :

Rules whofe deep fenfe and heavenly numbers fhow
The best of critics, and of poets too.

Nor, Denham, muft we e'er forget thy strains,
While Cooper's Hill commands the neighbouring plains.
But fee where artful Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming ev'n in years.
Great Dryden next, whofe tuneful Mufe affords
The sweetest numbers, and the fittest words.
Whether in comic founds or tragic airs

She forms her voice, he moves our fmiles or tears.
If fatire or heroic ftrains fhe writes,

Her hero pleases, and her fatire bites.

From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dreffes, and fhe charms in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourish'd, fhould decay with thee;
Did not the Mufes' other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear:
Congreve ! whofe fancy's unexhausted store
Has given already much, and promis'd more.
Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive,
And Dryden's Mufe fhall in his friend furvive.
I'm tir'd with rhyming, and would fain give o'er,
But juftice ftill demands one labour more :
The noble Montague remains unnain'd,

For wit, for humour, and for judgment fam'd;
To Dorfet he directs his artful Mufe,

In numbers fuch as Dorfet's felf might use.
How negligently graceful he unreins

His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains;

How

How Naffau's godlike acts adorn his lines,
And all the hero in full glory fhines!
We fee his army fet in just array,

And Boyne's dy'd waves run purple to the fea.
Nor Simois chok'd with men, and arms, and blood;
Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood,

Shall longer be the Poet's highest themes,

Though gods and heroes fought promifcuous in their ftreams.

But now, to Naffau's fecret councils rais'd,

He aids the hero, whom before he prais'd.

I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive The last poor present that my Muse can give.

I leave the arts of poetry and verse

To them that practise them with more fuccefs.
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell,
And fo at once, dear friend and Mufe, farewel.

A LETTER FROM ITALY.

TO THE

RIGHT HON. CHARLES LORD HALIFAX,

IN THE YEAR MDCCI.

"Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
"Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis & artis
Aggredior, fanctos aufus recludere fontes."
VIRG. Georg. ii.

W

HILE you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,

Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Confpire to trouble your repofe with rhyme.

For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and fhining profpects rife,
Poetic fields incompass me around,
And ftill I feem to tread on claffic ground;
For here the Mufe fo oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung,
Renown'd in verfe each fhady thicket grows,
And every ftream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rifing fprings and celebrated floods !

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